Unforgivable
by Kraken1
Summary: Severus Snape reflects upon meaning and morality. And his life. Let the wicked rest.


**"Unforgivable."**

--Gabriel Frosner.

  
  
  


"I never have fully understood why Avada Kedavra was one of the unforgivables, you know. Crucio pains the living, and can shatter a person's mind. Imperio controls someone, and forces them to act against their will. Avada Kedavra kills, and that's it. Death. 

"But there are so many things that are worse than death."

  
* * * *   
  


My father looks over the paper that I had given him. "Sirius Black and James Potter. How pathetic is that, Severus. If it wasn't bad enough that you came behind some disgraceful faerie boy like Black. Look at the blood in him. Worse than a Weasley. Did you know his parents actually approve of his fucking that Lupin boy? Like animals. Almost as bad as muggles.

"And James Potter. Potter." He says the name with disgust. "That isn't a wizarding name, Severus. Potter. Oh no, that's a muggle name. A muggle name, Severus. Your marks were lower than a mudblood's. That's disgusting.

"I can see him now, prancing off to tell his muggle parents about his top of the class marks. They won't understand. Muggles can't understand. They're different from you and I, Severus. They're weak. Stupid. Pathetic. Animals."

  
* * * *   
  


"With death you're... gone. Just... gone. Nothing more. But you still got to live your life. You got to make your life worth living.

"But other spells, they're worse. They can make you hurt those around you. Destroy those around you. Make yourself wish that you had died.

"And there are ways of doing that without magic."

  
* * * *   
  


It really is amusing to watch. Like Pavlov's dog.

The girl in question was twelve when we started. Now she was fourteen. And the difference was significant.

At first, I had been slightly horrified by what he did to her. Yes, I am ashamed to admit it to myself, but I had been.

She had been twelve, and looked so... human. Emotional. Like she actually thought.

Now I know the truth.

Her father is a gym addict, you see. Compulsive behaviour, like all muggles. His biceps are the size of my head. And so, a short glamour spell later, Lucius is a gym-buffed muggle himself. And then he walks into the room alone as I watch.

The first time, he had only punched her a couple of times. Smacked her around a bit. Basic stuff, really. And then, when she was huddled in the corner like the animal she was, her eyes closed to protect herself against the next blow, Lucius pulled out his wand, and said "Obliviate," and, cancelling his own glamour spell to become his thin self, he healed her.

After a week, the results were obvious. She was scared of her father. She would recoil whenever he touched her, and she didn't know why. Neither did he.

You see, Obliviate doesn't eliminate the memory. It uses the mind's own powers to repress it. So the memory is still there, but the person can't access it. Not consciously. But, muggles, like animals, access it unconsciously, and let it control their lives.

That was two years ago, and now Lucius doesn't even bother with clothes as he goes in. She screams at the sight of him, but doesn't really know why. Just that he looks horrible. But when he rips off her clothes, throwing her onto the table, she knows why. One Obliviate later, and she has forgotten again. Like an animal.

  
* * * *   
  


"Have you ever read 1984? Brave New World? Or Into the Darkness? Those three books scared me more than any horror movie ever has.

"In a horror movie, some monster/alien/ghost/zombie springs out at the screen, going to kill the person. Why would this scare me? I do not fear death. Some people think that makes me fearless. It is the opposite. Once you conquer your fear of death, you realize that there are worse things than death to fear."

  
* * * *   
  


She had been recoiling at the sight of a muscled man for a year and a half now. Every time she saw her father going to the gym, she cried. And only after two years. Imagine what could be done, with time.

This morning, her father was having a shower--a regular behaviour for him--but, when he got out, he realized that he had just taken a towel in with him, and had forgotten his clothes in his bedroom. So, naked, he left the bathroom. The girl was making a sandwich, and she saw him, his muscles gleaming with the light sheen of water still on him. Her hand tightened around the knife, and she charged toward him, filled with a hatred she didn't understand. Couldn't understand.

She panicked when she saw her father's blood. But she couldn't bring herself to touch him to stop the bleeding. She couldn't bring herself to touch that muscled body which terrified her. Horrified her. And so she watched, with horror, as the blood leaked out of him. Wanting to stop it, to save him, but unable to do anything but watch with horror as the thick crimson syrup flowed out of his body.

When he died, she cried. In mourning and self-loathing for her actions. And in relief. Yes, relief that she wouldn't have this muscle-laden man around her anymore. That she was safe.

Why she should fear him, she never would know.

  
* * * *   
  


"Most of the time, I am cynical. I realize that there is no 'human nature.' That there is no such thing as innocence, or goodness, or compassion. That our past creates these things in us. That whoever controls our past controls us.

"But, sometimes... I can't help but think that there is some human nature, and that, given a chance, people will find it. Of course, most never even realize that they've suppressed that instinct. That nature. But, sometimes, you can see someone break through their past, and become compassionate, caring, and happy.

"Maybe it's just for a moment--less than a second--but it's there. And, for that brief moment, I have faith in humanity. And in my humanity."

  
* * * *   
  


Now the girl was back in the room where they had taken her almost every day for the last two years.

She was huddled in the corner, tears streaming out of her eyes. Relief. Grief. Loathing. It hadn't even been 12 hours since she killed her father.

And there was dread. Oh, yes, there was always dread. She dreaded this empty room more than anything; anything, that is, except the room with a muscled Lucius in it. And she still didn't know why.

I laugh. Laugh at the pathetic animal cowering in the corner of the room, curled up into a ball in a pitiful--no, not pitiful; she was beneath pity--attempt to block out anything horrible in the room.

Lucius handed me his wand.

"Now it's your turn, knife. Time to sever." 

He's smiling as I take the wand. And I'm smiling too. I open the door, and the girl starts in fear, before relaxing when she sees my slim form. She doesn't know why my form is relaxing. To her, it just is.

I smile wider because I know how wrong she is.

"Crucio." I say, and she screams, her form curling tighter into a ball--like a foetus, an animal--to block out the pain. Her screaming goes on for a while, and then it stops, her eyes open and staring at nothing. Her tears drying. I wave my hand in front of those eyes. And there is no reaction. She broke in minutes. She was weak, like an animal. Like a muggle.

  
* * * *   
  


"I wonder, sometimes, if you will ever learn, Lucius.

"I am not a happy man. I never will be.

"But I am happier than you."

  
* * * *   
  


"My knife, and my smile. You work as a team. One seduces, and makes the victim feel... safe. And then there's the knife, never noticed amongst the jewels of silver until it severs the throat." Voldemort said, his eyes levelled on Lucius.

"But when one fails, the other is useless. The smile alone does nothing." His voice grew colder. "And the seen knife is blocked."

Lucius shudders, and drops his eyes.

The word comes out like a hiss: "Crucio."

Lucius drops to the ground and huddles into a ball, scrambling for the corner of the room like an... like an...

Something in the back of my mind twitches.

  
* * * *   
  


"You think you're so superior, Lucius. You think that you're powerful, and therefore happy.

"But that power will never let you feel peace."

  
* * * *   
  


This time, it is my eyes that are lowered to the ground. I had failed. And failure is never a safe option.

"Severus, you have disappointed me. My knife is dull. And I cannot abide imperfection."

I shudder.

"Crucio."

Suddenly my whole body is on fire, burning, and the pain seems to go on forever. I can't think of anything but the pain, and the need to end it. I think I can feel my skin bubbling, and peeling from the heat. My lungs ripping with every breath I take. My eyes burning away.

Suddenly, the pain stops, and, after taking a few breaths, I can feel the corner of the wall against my back, and my face against my knees. I open my eyes, and see myself curled into a ball in the corner of the room, like an... like an... like an...

Animal.

I feel the vomit rise in the back of my throat, and I push it down, hard. The acidic taste lingers. I know that the vomit will come out later, though, but not here. Not in front of Voldemort. That would be weakness. Imperfection. And Voldemort can not abide imperfection.

  
* * * *   
  


"I only wish that my memories would give me peace."


End file.
